


Citrus-Kiss

by Roo_Bastmoon



Category: Gundam SEED
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:56:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roo_Bastmoon/pseuds/Roo_Bastmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kira thinks about his relationship with the "Hawk of Endymion."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Citrus-Kiss

La Flaga smells like sweet, almost-overripe oranges. The kind that had been hard to get back on Heliopolis. The older man was a burst of citrus on Kira’s tongue.

His kisses were possessive and at the same time, gentle. His skin was smooth, except for a few scars. His hair was surprisingly soft.

La Flaga often whispered encouragement in Kira’s ear, his voice low, commanding. His hand would wrap around Kira’s length and stroke with maddening skill, the pleasure causing the boy to bite his lip. The Archangel’s living quarters were packed tightly together; it wouldn’t do to call out.

Sometimes, when Kira used his tongue just right, La Flaga would groan, his stomach stretched taut like the skin of a drum. Then he’d rake his fingernails across Kira’s scalp, and pull him up for another kiss, and Kira was lost, lost, a ship at sea, sinking in sands of desire, the cold depths of space abandoned by this man’s warmth, by his casual fire and heat.

Strong arms would lock around him, push him down, spread his legs. Kira would grunt and pant and do his best to let La Flaga in, living for those citrus-kisses; his mouth latched onto La Flaga’s; his heart thumping against his chest, in his ears.

“Come for me,” La Flaga would whisper, and Kira, drifting, drugged with the warmth, would always obey.

Afterward, La Flaga would ruffle his hair, then climb back into his pilot’s suit and make a hasty exit—a wink and an affectionate, “Good work, Skinny,” and then . . . silence. Cold. The cloying smell of Flay’s perfume. The dreams—Athrun and Lacus and incinerated paper flowers.

Kira wakes up every morning, doused in cold sweat, thirsty, in that place between dreaming and awake, the scent of citrus forgotten.


End file.
